


Do You Wanna Play Deductions?

by Vanalosswen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deductions!, Holmes parents aren't abusive just oblivious, Mycroft being too old for his skin, Teaching baby Sherlock to deduce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:13:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanalosswen/pseuds/Vanalosswen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles following Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes through their childhood into adulthood. While many things conspire to tear them apart, they always have one thing in common: the game they simply call Deductions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Wanna Play Deductions?

**Author's Note:**

> This is based loosely on the only parody of 'Do You Wanna Build A Snowman' I can tolerate: https://soundcloud.com/tprinces/do-you-wanna
> 
> My brain was being evil at work, so I decided to pass the earworm along. You're welcome!

When Mycroft found out his parents had been selfish and careless enough to make another baby, he spent well over half of his mother’s pregnancy sulking over the thing growing in her womb. He wasn’t an idiot. Very much the opposite, actually. At the age of seven, he was reading at secondary school level. The librarians at his school (useless and boring) hadn’t been helpful at all; they refused to let him borrow any book more complex than the sort of fanciful adventures used to lull idiots into a happy stupor.

He didn’t let the arbitrary ban stop him, though. He was a resourceful boy and, more importantly, he was smarter than the librarians. When he wanted to know something, Mycroft alternated between forging his mother’s airy handwriting and using his pocket money and secrets to bribe one of his network of older children to get the books that would explain the world’s mysteries. Or, at the least, tell him what the generalized idiots thought. So he knew what to expect from having a younger sibling. He’d no longer be the favored child; he’d have to share his parents’ time with a squalling interloper. The only possible benefit was having a ready-made henchman when he took over England and the UK.

Halfway through the pregnancy, Mycroft discovered an unexpected benefit to the growing parasite: his mother developed an insatiable sweet tooth. Once upon a time, the Holmes household was nearly Spartan in its lack of sugary goods; now, Mummy had a baking day twice a week and always had a chocolate bar in her purse. And, if Myckie promised to stop sulking, he could have a /small/ bite. He hated that nickname, and he wanted more than a small bite. But her vigilance over the other sweets eased when he showed her the happy content face she wanted to see, so he learned to pretend contentment. Mummy wasn’t the only one gaining weight. Papa earned a scolding when he gently prodded Mycroft’s tummy and asked when his baby was due. Mycroft didn’t talk to Papa for a month after that.

When the baby arrived, he did so in a way that would characterize his whole life: he came dramatically, and at the worst possible time. Mummy’s water broke in the second half of a grand concert, flooding her beautiful dress and sending Mummy and Papa out of the concert hall in a confused flurry of people and vehicles. Mycroft was left behind. Accidentally, of course, but the fact still remained. He took it very calmly once he realized what had happened; there was no sense in wasting the expensive tickets. So he finished listening to the last of the very excellent concert before he went out and solemnly found a cab that would accept payment upon their arrival back home. 

Looking back much later in life, Mycroft knew he was lucky to fall in with a cabbie who liked kids [picture of his own four tacked on the dash, lots of little footprints in the back of the cab, a certain softness when Mycroft marched up to him and said his parents left him behind]. Otherwise, he could have been a statistic. At the time, Mycroft’s main concern was getting away from the frantic housekeeper who alternated between shouting at him and cuddling “the poor little lamb”. At last, he managed to escape to his room, where he took cover for the three days his parents were in the hospital.

He heard the baby before he saw the little invader. The baby wasn’t terribly loud, but his cries were persistent, hitting one key over and over again. Against his better judgment, Mycroft found curiosity driving his steps to the nursery, decorated in shades of blue and brown. The room reminded Mycroft of the heart of a sailing ship, if the ship was constructed of the sea it sailed. Fanciful, certainly, but a fun little thought anyway. 

Stopping just outside the doorway, Mycroft peeked in around the wood of the doorframe. Mummy and Papa were there, bending over the crib and cooing soft nonsense noises in an effort to quiet the constant noise. What was the point of that? The baby would grow up eventually, and language development was key to the baby’s ability to think and act in a semi-intelligent manner.

Mummy glanced up, and Mycroft ducked back around the corner a little too slowly. “Oh, Myckie, darling, there you are!” Mummy caroled softly. “Come in, meet William!”

William? Why on earth had they chosen such a commonplace name for their second child? Were they tired of spelling ‘Mycroft’ a thousand times for the idiots who didn’t know their phonetic spelling? “William?” Mycroft asked doubtfully, inching closer.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Papa explained, looking up with a dopey smile. Lack of sleep, probably, causing a drugged reaction in the exhausted parents. “Named for my side of the family, like you were named for your mother’s side.”

Mycroft pulled a small stool over to the crib and stood on it, folding his arms on the barred side to look down at the squalling thing inside. “That’s it?” he asked, half incredulously. His baby brother looked like a half-formed lump of dough with a red pruney face and a wild mane of dark hair. “Hardly looks worth the fuss.”

“Well, he may not look like much yet,” Mummy said, smoothing the dark hair back gently. “But when he grows up a little, you two will have such fun together.”

“William,” Mycroft said disdainfully. The name didn’t suit the baby.

Later that night, once everyone’s settled and Mummy and Papa were sleeping the deep sleep of the just, Mycroft snuck into the baby’s room. He’d mercifully stopped crying once he’d been fed and had his nappy changed, and now he was lying in his crib, wrapped warmly in his blankets. Mycroft climbed in carefully with the baby, holding his prize carefully in his pudgy little fist. 

“Hello,” he whispered once he was settled in the crib. “They call you William. I think that’s a stupid name, it doesn’t suit you.” The baby watched him solemnly in the dim light from the nightlight, his light blue eyes far more aware than a baby’s is supposed to be. “I’m Mycroft. Not Myckie, whatever Mummy may tell you. And I think Sherlock suits you better. Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock seemed to consider that a moment, then burbled incoherently. Mycroft smiled. “Good, we have an accord.” He showed Sherlock the thing he’d brought with him: Papa’s favorite pipe, worn and bitten along the stem and scraped where their father’s hands slipped when he was cleaning out the bowl. “Papa often looks like the typical calm, hen-pecked husband,” he explained as he dangled the pipe above Sherlock’s head like a mobile. The baby’s big blue eyes locked on it, as if already trying to uncover its mysteries. “But you can see from his smoking habits that he’s quite an agitated man in his stillness. Look at the stem: he’s bitten it so many times, it looks like a beaver went at it. And his hands shake almost all the time, as you can see here…” he tipped the pipe so the bowl was upside down over the baby, spilling bits of tobacco debris on his face. Sherlock’s face crinkled up and he sneezed several times, looking like he was about to start crying. “Shh, no need to cry,” Mycroft said, brushing the debris off quickly. “See, just a bit of dead, burned leaves.”

Sherlock considered that a moment, then settled again as Mycroft continued his explanation on the fine and in-depth game he called Deductions. Maybe Sherlock was too young to understand at this point, but he’d learn quickly. Mycroft would see to that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how many chapters this will be; I know I'll be hitting Sherlock at ages three, seven, nine, and probably sixteen. But I'm completely open to suggestions, because this story is off the cuff.
> 
> As ever, comments and criticism will be gratefully accepted, and flames will be used to keep me warm in the Alaskan winter. Cheers!


End file.
